The Great Gatsby That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in

Gatsby‟s face. “That drug-store business was just small change,”

continued Tom slowly, “but you‟ve got something on now that Walter‟s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between

Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby — and was startled at his expression. He looked —and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden — as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way. It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying

everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room. The voice begged again to go. “PLEASE, Tom! I can‟t stand this any more.”